Our new Uzbekistan Yes, I am that even by the residents of other rich, developed countries I was born in Uzbekistan, a unique country described as a “Paradise land”. First of all, thank God for this. This country is truly a paradise. Its nature, scenery, air, delicacies, friendly and hospitable people, everything is special. Day by day, the example of a new bride in our country is becoming more beautiful and polished. Whether there is a living soul living in this land, whether it is a human, an animal or a plant, everyone is happy to be born in this land, in this wonderful place. There are countries where you won’t find a single flower that is a symbol of beauty that will bring you a smile and a good mood. There are countries where you cannot find a child who can be a support to his parents who raised him and loved him in his old age. But God’s eyes fell on our country and everything was given in abundance. Alhamdulillah. The leader of our country, our father, our first president, Islam Karimov, did not stop until our country reached this level. They said that they are my people, whether they walk or stand. They saw people as their family members. They paid special attention to us young people. They said to themselves, “Our children must be stronger, more educated, stronger and certainly happier than us!” they put the slogan. In a word, every Uzbek, along with our compatriots, was able to take an indelible place in the hearts of the people of other countries. Today, their follower, our new president, Shavkat Mirziyaev, is continuing the work of our first president, Islam Karimov, for the peace, prosperity, and further development of our country. They are working day and night for the prosperity of our country, for the peaceful and happy life of our people, for us young people to get a good education and never be inferior to anyone else. After all, isn’t this the land under God’s eyes. The people under God’s eyes? Isn’t this the nation on which the bird of happiness landed? Yes, this happiness is not for everyone. It is the duty of each of us to preserve this happiness. It is our great goal of every young generation to protect our country, which is growing and developing day by day. Our country is changing day by day, even a person who lives here and goes to study or work in another country for a short period of time comes back and is surprised by the changes. Our country is surprising the world. The leader of our country, our grandfather, is never tired of striving for the prosperity and development of our country, just as the bees never get tired of gathering honey and keeping it. There is a big difference between Uzbekistan five years ago and today’s Uzbekistan. In a short period of time, the people of our country have achieved great achievements that have made our country take a worthy place in the world community. He introduced a number of reforms and innovations to our country. Our country has entered a qualitatively new stage of its independent development, New Uzbekistan. And this New Uzbekistan is developed on the basis of the principles of friendly cooperation with the world community, strictly following the recognized norms and principles of democracy, human rights and freedoms, and the ultimate goal is to create a free, prosperous and prosperous life for the people. It was proudly mentioned by a number of editors. The phrase “New Uzbekistan” means, first of all, a new life, new reforms, a new way of life, a new worldview. In this regard, we cannot count the achievements made during the past 5 years. During these 5 years, our country has developed more and has more unique landscapes. It proved that it will not be left behind by other developed beautiful countries. Developed in every way. Of course, these achievements are based on strong knowledge. The owners of this knowledge are our peers, young people, people of our country. After all, our first president Islam Karimov said, “The future of Uzbekistan is in the hands of the youth!” they hardly boasted. This is the future! And Uzbekistan is in the hands of our youth. We must make it more prosperous, raise it further, justify the trust given to us. In a word, we should join hands, tie our waists tightly, and live for the country and the people with enthusiasm! For Homeland My grandfather said, "My child this world is yours. Gird up your loins, you are a flower in the mountains. Live for this country, let it be self-sacrificing soul, Be great like your ancestors, white blood in your veins. Don't give away your cradle, open to the people your door, Try with all your heart, may luck be always with you. This beautiful country is for you, for a black eye is yours Let's hold hands, let's live for the Motherland too. Since the new Uzbekistan is being built for us, we should live for our homeland. our country, our people, and work together wholeheartedly. We must justify the trust given to the youth. We need to improve our new Uzbekistan and make it flourish. We are proud to live in such a heavenly country, and it is our main duty to protect every inch of its soil like our own home. It is a dream for some to see the beauty of our new Uzbekistan, and some dream of living in other countries. And we are in this country. We should be thankful that we are among the people whom God loves.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Charos Makhamova
Thinking of me, are awake at every step, When i see you, i feel myself over the moon. Donʼt refuse, let me lay my head on you lap, You are always my remedy to my pain. You sang a lullaby to me over the night, You calm me down by saying "my daughter". Let me kiss your beady eyes only a once Let me lay my on your lap, dear mother. Such a pity, i donʼt always have time help you But you always keep me in your heart and mind. Many years passed since i missed you so much, Let me lay my on your lap, dear mother. Your sunshine with an immense kindness Even the ice melts from your love. Stroke my head, again kiss my forehead Let me lay my on your lap, dear mother. Such a cruel and evil fate cannot test me, Your prays are a shield and protector. I forget the whole world, when you tell a story Let me lay my on your lap, dear mother.
Makhkamova Charos Davron’s daughter. Was born on December 23, 2005 in Orta Chirchik district, Tashkent region. Currently, she is an 11th grade student at the 44th General Secondary School. Articles anda poems were published in newspapers of India, Thailand, the USA, Great Britain, Canada, Australia, and in anthologies sold in 26 countries. The winner of the district stage of the 2022 “Smart Reader” competition.
Story from Jim Meirose
One Way of Surviving a Fall
Okay I’m gonna do it!
Good for you good for you!
Okay I’m gonna try it!
Good for you good for you go on!
Step’d to the wall’s that’s nott’d there take the pledge up-touch; lean in; and—oh—it is not there right on fast through fall down into ? so fast there’s no time to live through it at all let alone “talk about it” and—fall.
Fall done en’ tumblin’ not—as there nothing to strike of the consistency of air or rock or anyplace in between to cause the fall t’ be a tumbling fall and so the landing well, it is really hard to predict if the fall gets survived. You know you see? Do you know? Do you see why don’t you know you were shown earlier and you do not know for one simple reason = you did not apply yourself fully = it is not for our kind to apply ourselves fully = oh yes and why not = because the things in life obtained by applying oneself fully are not for such as us = oh no = oh yes = the things in life obtained by applying oneself are not for us they’re for other people what = why you want to waste those damned ten years of life striving out so far that way that you end up going so far out that way you won’t find an arm attached to yourself long enough to reach back and grab yourself and pull yourself back there up to yourself out there and fuse the two which is what makes for a successful = thought still quite hard = oh yes you will you will feel the fall in any case no pain no gain barf bar/ ba’ b’ = wow they’re to feel that in the morning wish I hadn’t seen that oh well what’s done is done, in any case = may be said after the completion of a successfully survived fall that is your two = one now not only did your arm turn out to be just barely good enough and the two halves of yourself = perfectly aligned at the moment of fusion = you stop and you see that if planet Earth does experience {metaphorically of course as = [ with an entire planetary bag o’ living creatures ] = the explanation that’s just been handed out to you = hilariously bad laughably overly-simplified most stuntedly underdeveloped so let’s not go there = I am parched, where’s my am parched water parched, where’s my where’s my am parched, my top-filled am parched, water; my water’ water my God man; you don’t even know what a water looks like, spit-tooten’, spit-tooten = here is what a water looks like
God damn you ah ah ‘illina ‘illina stil’ down t’ road hipsla-tango = you can tell by my faces I am not fooling around you can tell but in any stroke there they were successfully landed bright-bruised, but happy. In contrast to = drink drink drink drink drink = the other way of falling which = drink drink drink drink drink = is just nearly as best but best’s not enough when in this one = drink drink drink drink drink = the faller’s arm-reachback’s not quite so adequate = drink drink drink drink drink = and thus the falling’s not needed since being parted out into two separate ways is inherently fatal in and of itself = drink drink drink drink drink = so we needn’t to go there not to go there we needn’t = to go spit clash glub bub = drink drink drink drink drink = so then squire-lastly there’s this tickle of a final way out of all possible finals ways to = remember the best way to break a fall is to never have fallen at all [yes sir that’s right] know that wisdom now = drink drink drink drink drink = and know it immediately, private, or you will face the living hell of being put in charge of all the vessels do you know what that means sweetheart fear it fear it do you feel the fear of possibly being put in charge of all the vessels or worse yes than this
= drink drink drink drink drink = sir! And worse yes than that = drink drink drink drink drink = sir! but all’s become so tiny sir how can we do it now it’s gone down so tiny? would be actually being put in charge of all the vessels (oh yah oh yah reality does have a way of stepping out of the theoretically real into the really real area of its-self within which lies all pain suffering malicious cruelty and even some petty thieveries of two or three but what’s a (?? tipt’d-tongue tip’d-tongue) “ “ this blank may be filled with any word desired dab-smack’d so whish would you choose Top-mayor, I mean what’s right what’s wrong BOO just never ever ever blacken the family name
BOO for if the family name gets blackened not only will it set all the neighbors a-buzzing [and thus to shut up all smiley when thou doth enter their earshot] so now my nose’s blown and my inner noisefest’s gone a-quiet {nearly}, here’s what happens = the back-half’s been grabbed ‘nd pulled up’s been = not really aligned perfectly = the two halve will mate jaggedly off center = leap back the observers & if any & out of shrapnel’s range = and the two will clash off-center = being mmmmediately kill-xisted into balls of flames slurries of green red and when present at all, most likely laced with streaky-splatter’d gold {but yes oh yes of gold nonetheless so of probable high-value = let’s take ‘em out Sarge! = the minutes all ‘round here b’ ticking yas yas, they be ticking = and it does all seem to not be there anymore just like YOU if you dare fall that way, Toppie, just like YOU and like YOU old-man Toppie, but here we are no wait the doors need to slip open—there.
What?
Regardless of number of hot teas too-accurately drunk, we be.
There. Look!
Jan and Jon turned out from their looking.
Where the hell are we?
In the aftermath of a successfully perfectly harmless fall.
What?
How.
Wonderful!
Party!
= drink drink drink drink drink =
Party!
= drink drink drink drink drink =
Party!
= drink drink drink drink drink =
Party!
= drink drink drink drink drink == drink drink drink drink drink =
Poetry from Dan Cuddy
Frankfurt am Main, Germany Often in my wounded warrior years I think back to Frankfurt, Germany twenty years after the horror though I then was not mindful of the whistle and bang of bombs, the dry or the wet mess of rubble; the streets were postcards reconstructing, bratwurst sizzling beer warm, not needing chill, frauleins in calf-high boots, mini-skirts, tight sweaters that your eyes groped wildly, though judiciously. The sun shone down as in a travel magazine, so rich that azure, the greens dark, bright in that damp Taunus District climate. My legs were good. I walked one end of the city to the other never fearing knife, gun, Gestapo, thug; I walked fantasizing the look of the Holy Roman Empire, of genuine Roman soldiers before that, the armor clinking or clacking as they walked, the precision of determined feet on stone, on ground. I imagined campfires on dark nights, logs, twigs burning, the crackle, and the river silent in the shadows out there somewhere. I strolled by the now and seemingly forever named Main River, the stippled white light of noon floating, and I even by myself, mostly by myself, entered the scene like Caspar David Friedrich, a wanderer above a sea of fog, but the fog was in the mind, history, not the eye, in the mind and then the cold touch of a railing, and next to me the frown and pull away of that pretty girl that I would have liked to meet.. I heard stories of the war, saw the aria of the old opera house, the building a shell exploded with a Beethoven burst. The fog did not lift; besides imagined Sturm und Drang. there was only the crudity, the stupidity of enlisted army life, only the George Grosz faces of people I knew, drunks, punks I knew, kids like me, when face to face with a mirror, and later through years of sifted sunlight, time established itself, the haze of history arose from its corpse. I saw in perspective a personal walk on a stage empty awaiting the next act of the larger drama. I was grateful that I lived in less than Wagnerian times, the entrances and exits were losing their impressions in the accumulating dust, in the wearing away of wounds in the sweeping away of the dust. History is so much cloud; The brief shapes evaporate But the essence of storm Always arises, bit by bit, And grumbles out to another country, Bites lightning quick, Floods with impassioned blood And roars the rhetoric of anger and grief. In Frankfurt I roamed the wisps of the past As if the conclusion of one war was final, but it is the human heart that’s always ready for new battle, arming itself with distrust, suspicion, vainglorious ambition, A generation falls dead, So many puppets rot away, All that courage, fear, blindness, Visionary grief evaporated like water, Puddles of blood hidden, absorbed by weeds, The dancing flowers of peace so charming, Disarming nations with the veneer of civilization. How so much is reconstructed, built with hope, But all the foundations are built on forgetting, or if Memory is invoked, the kings, queens, sergeants, Killers and the fallen are made of bronze or stone. No blood, no veins, no laughs or tears Come out of the unchanging mouths of statues, Posterity that has that faux nobility, Like scripture has that holier than thou reverence. Nothing is grounded in the common world of bombs, armor. The head is still wrapped in historic fog, ----Dan Cuddy ******* The Gasthaus On Homburger Landstrasse Johan or “John” owned a profitable business a gasthaus serving Henninger Bier cognac all manner of whiskey schnitzel, wurst, pommes frites that the young depraved American army craved A somewhat homey place, the wood paneling, the white and yellow opaque glass of the lower window panes, the comfortable tables, not too closely spaced; Locals visited it too, not just soldiers that wanted to get off-base but had to stay nearby, Edwards Kaserne just across the street and Third Armor headquarters' gate, this side half a block down. John had a glass eye. He in his late forties a soldier in Hitler's army, his frau, attractive face, a bit plump but good living settles, spreads, sits in contented conversation. Renoir would approve. Life moves on. Certainly, John was not a war criminal but a skinny youth in the bad times, when harangue and euphoria were the orders of the day. John just wanted to get along; it was his duty to serve, defend the homeland, had nothing to do with Jews. he didn't particularly like Nazis. He was a dark-haired German lean, young, given a uniform, a gun. John was not an intellectual; he fell into the general apoplexy, nurtured no visible conscience or protest, just an ordinary man, Ecco Homo, the events swarming before his eyes within, without his mind, he just wanted life, not a soldier's death, not a hero's monument, and so, twenty years after the war he had a plump attractive wife who gave him a peck of affection in public and more in the marriage bed, three floors above that gasthaus where soldiers would come and go talking of drinking and bordellos, but the American soldiers were kids and the couple like chaperones kept a semblance of order, had little trouble with loud voices, off-key American singing. A profitable business, an ordinary life, not a romantic’s dream but preferable to the ride of the Valkyries one learns to tap forgetfulness toast the present, ---Dan Cuddy
Story from Beknazarova Ayganim
Respect for book begins from library
It was a summer month when the sun rose, the air was hot. Today Sarvinoz woke up early, did exercises, washed her face and drank tea and daydreamed and played on her phone. She couldn't find any more interesting thing to do, so again she daydreamed.
She remembered that her teacher's words. Teacher said "The best and most useful thing to do when a person is bored is to read a book." Sarvinoz immediately wanted to read a book and looked for a book at home but there was not any book in her house. Her librarian teacher to her said, "Whenever you want to read a book, come to the library, you will find all the books that you are looking for."
After that Sarvinoz dressed and she went to the library. On the way, she met a lot of friends and they went to the library together. When they arrived, the librarian Maryam was gathering all the books. Maryam was very tired.
The girls looked at Maryam. —"Assalamu alaykum teacher, we have come to get a book," they said. Librarian Maryam said, "Vaalaykum assalom, you are welcome, please wait for me to tidy up this place and then I will definitely find the books you want."
Sarvinoz remembered her mother tongue teacher's words.
"Respect for the book--it starts in the library," said her teacher.
Sarvinoz suddenly said, "Can we help you?"
Librarian Maryam smiled and said, "Will you be tired?"
The girls replied, "No."
"Then it's fine but you only bring the books I will put them away myself, if not, you will be tired."
"It is Ok," said the girls.
They gathered all the books in an instant. Librarian Maryam thanked Sarvinoz and her friends and found the books, Sarvinoz went back home and read with pleasure.
Beknazarova Ayganim was born in the village of Keregetau, Tomdi District, Navoi Region, Republic of Uzbekistan. Currently, she is a student of the 7th grade of the 9th school.
Excerpt from Jeff Rasley’s new book Bringing Progress to Paradise
An excerpt from Bringing Progress to Paradise: What I Got from Giving to a Mountain Village in Nepal, by Jeff Rasley, published by Midsummer Books, 2023.
We were five ghostly figures in swirling snow, standing atopthe 15,000-foot Zatwra La. Early morning rays of sun crept over and down the flank of the great white peak behind us. Wind blowing from the north made it hard to hear the others. Heather shouted over the hushing wind, “We’ve got to spread out!” But Tom insisted we should stay close together. All our rope was with our porters, who were slogging up the pass an hour or so behind us. Suddenly, Heather yelped and took off running. Tom cursed. Seth bellowed, “Go, run!” And then I heard the low distant roar that mountain climbers dread.
We took off down the pass with Heather in the lead. Judy cried out and fell down. Tom and Seth grabbed her arms, pulling her up, yelling at her, “Run! Run!”
I saw them out of the corner of my eye as I pounded mechanically down the rocky, snow-covered slope, stumbling into and over boulders hidden by snow. My consciousness was a gray crackling static. I knew my ability to think and respond was impaired by altitude sickness. All I felt was an instinctive drive to keep running, to get off this mountain, to survive.
The roar of the avalanche above and behind us was replaced by an eerie whirring sound. Spindrift came over us, stark white and opaque. I could barely see my gloves and boots. But the avalanche had petered out. We fell to our knees gasping. We looked up into a vast whiteness.
~~~~~~~
The avalanche struck when our team was hiking out from base camp after a failed attempt to climb 21,224-foot Mera Peak in the fall of 1999 in the Solu-Khumbu region of Nepal. Fifteen climbing teams spent most of the first week of October stuck in base camp or high camp. With unrelenting snow and terrible visibility, conditions were too tough to make a summit attempt. During my team’s eleven-day trek to the Mera base camp at 16,000 feet, we were rained on every day until we got above 14,000 feet. From then on, it snowed every day.
The trek was surrealistic, over high mountain passes, across rushing glacier-fed streams. We slipped and slid through a muddy bamboo forest and past the remains of a village destroyed the year before by an avalanche. Everything—our gear, boots, clothes—was soaking wet by the time we got above the rain, camping then in snow and ice. Our progress was slowed after that by having to slog through deep snow. After four days enduring heavy snows and blizzard conditions in base camp and high camp, our team gave up. I spent the last day on the mountain in a tent by myself, retching and wretched with altitude sickness and a sinus infection.
Snow continued to fall as our defeated and bedraggled team finally hiked out of base camp. At sunrise on the second day of the hike out, our tents sagged under five inches of new snow that had fallen during the night. Snow continued falling as we ate breakfast, packed gear, and then trudged 2,000 feet up the backside of the 15,000-foot pass called Zatrwa La. This was the last high pass to cross to escape the menace of avalanche from the great white-capped Himalayan peaks and to reach Lukla village, where a Twin Otter airplane was scheduled to fly us back to Katmandu. By the time we postholed up to the crest of the pass, fresh snow was over two feet deep. The conditions were perfect for an avalanche: fresh, deep, and unstable snow.
Barely visible through the falling snow on a ridge above and behind us were splotches of red and yellow—the down parkas of three Nepalese porters from another climbing expedition that was following us out of the mountains. The three Nepalese guys were inching their way across the ridge, slowed by the blowing snow and the heavy loads they were carrying.
When the avalanche struck, my team was on the crest of the Zatwra La trying to decide how to descend the steep 4,000-foot slope. The avalanche came down off a mountain shoulder well above and behind us, but right above the three Nepalese porters. They vanished in the gigantic wave of the avalanche. It wasn’t until we were safely back in Lukla village that we learned the porters had been killed, along with four others who died in a series of avalanches across the Nepal-Tibetan Himalaya that same week of October 1999.
Of those seven deaths, only one garnered international headlines, that of the famous mountaineer Alex Lowe on Shishapangma in Tibet. If the deaths of six Nepalese porters in the avalanches were noted at all, it was as a footnote to the loss of a great Western mountaineer.
The three porters I saw enveloped in the death grip of the avalanche were known to me only as workers for another climbing expedition of Western adventurers. They lost their lives carrying heavy loads while taking a higher, harder shortcut out of base camp to get their employers’ gear to Lukla before the climbers arrived.
~~~~~~~
The arc of this story begins with three being enveloped in an avalanche of death and ends in three being enveloped in an avalanche of love in a village called Basa.
Poetry from Alan Catlin
694- something I read or heard somewhere, “The dead have memories For up to thirty days after they die.” Actually misheard. should be, “The dead have memorials that last Up to thirty days after they die.” “It was like the truth” 700- “For imaginary visitors I had a chair Made of cane I found in the trash.” Charles Simic After Dante, no one was surprised how many levels of hell there were “Your invisible friend, what happened to her?” Simic 704- Hell’s lawn ornaments. Sock puppets. Stuffed toys. Rusted hubcaps. Flexible action figures. Colored string. Lawn jockeys. Garden gnomes. Dried flowers. Wrought iron funeral wreathes. Metal flowers. Bird houses. Birds. Pinecones. Broken wrist watches. Detached human ears. Potato heads. Doll’s heads, voodoo heads. Fetishes. Mannequin limbs. Snake eyes. 706- Doomsday or plain old day books. Jean Seberg or Romaine Gary. Dead in the trunk of a car or The back seats of. Jim Carroll. Herman Melville. Jerry Garcia. All born August 1. All gone now. 707- True seriousness resides in the comic. Nicanor Parra. The Oblivion Seeker. Isabel Erhardt or DFW. Drowned in a flash flood in the desert or hung by the neck until dead. 708- Drowning the desert. Like getting killed in a car crash on the way home from a funeral. Like a mystery writer being murdered. Like being killed on the ground by a plane falling from the sky after surviving 9-11 in a tower.